


The Weight We Carry

by tangofox



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Character Death, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Violence, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4066168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampire Mythos is so diluted by pop culture, that Grantaire has always been absolutely sure, that creatures like that only exist in stories. Even when faced with the exact symptoms of 'vampyrism', the man is quick to disregard them, and peg them as something else. Little does he know; he's about to be thrust into an unknown world full of blood and danger, and discover that the one thing worse than having your life taken, is having it taken by the person you trusted the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iron

_Grantaire_

It wasn't unusual for Grantaire to wake up with a strange taste in his mouth, with aching limbs and a foggy memory. They were all side-effects of a good night out, as far as he was concerned. Or at least...a heavy night out. Not all of his benders were _good_ , but they certainly were all alcohol fuelled, and usually resulted in at least a little bit of a black out. He wonders if he got into a fight last night, his body is certainly aching enough for it to be true. He runs his fingers over his lips while sprawled out on his mattress, feeling no split lip, no scabs forming anywhere near his mouth. He shoves his fingers inside his mouth next, running them over his teeth, grasping at them with a stubby finger and thumb, making sure none of them wobble, that the sharp metallic tang in his mouth wasn't caused by a hard punch in the face. His nose; while crooked from years of boxing in and out of the ring, shows no signs of recent trauma, no sharp pain, no tender or swollen areas.

Summarising he must have bit his tongue or perhaps vomited a little too enthusiastically last night (despite the usual acrid taste of bile in his mouth), he rolls over onto his stomach, groaning into his pillow, never more grateful for the thick fabric he had hung up in lieu of real curtains, keeping the room not only cool but dark, worlds away from what he was sure was bright and beaming sunshine out in the real world. He's vaguely aware that he doesn't have a pounding headache, and that the minor wrist sprain he had been nursing from a recent drunken tumble, didn't hurt at all. The only thing that did hurt, was his neck. A dull throb resting just in line with his ear, a pain his fingers can't help but follow; he's never been good at not poking open wounds. He finds what he assumes is a battle wound, still healing and scabbing over, a kind of tear. He cant resist prodding until the wound gives way, index finger pushing against wet and raw flesh, though his body only responds with the same dull ache, not the sharp pain he's expecting. He pulls his hand away, his finger red and glistening, wiping it on his bedsheets with little care. Nobody's going to see them, and a stain of his own blood isn't going to kill him while he sleeps. He'll look at it later in the mirror, if he can will himself to move from his bed.

His large hands fumble around under his pillow until he finds his phone, old and outdated, the low battery sign blinking at him, red and angry. He dismisses the warning and thumbs through his contacts until he finds Bahorel, pressing call as he puts the phone on speaker, lying it lazily next to his head. He hears the pumping music before he hears the man, loud and upbeat in the background, unmistakable. Grantaire has spent enough time half-arsing it at the gym to know the sound of the peppy techno bullshit they play through the speakers there.

"You were supposed to be here half an hour ago, you promised me you'd spot me," Bahorel groans instead of a greeting, Grantaire aware of the sounds of his breathing, of the clinking of weights as he sets them down, of the slight squeak of his shoes. Peturbed, he turns the volume down a little, hoping to dull out all the background noise.

"Did we go out last night, because I can't remember a thing," Grantaire mumbles, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth, as if he's using it for the first time.

Bahorel laughs sharply, and Grantaire for a second, swears he can actually hear him shaking his head. "No my friend, you were supposed to come for drinks with Joly and me, but you never showed," He tells him. He doesn't sound disappointed or upset that Grantaire seemingly blew them off, which in a way, still manages to sting. The fact that even his friends have learnt to not even expect attendance of him, says nothing good about his character.

"I'm hungover and I can't remember a thing. I think I got into a fight," he grumbles back at him, an apology almost making its way to his mouth, only to slip back down his throat, unspoken as always.

"Did you go to that club you keep talking to us about? The one off Voltaire?"

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders in answer, despite not knowing what on earth Bahorel was talking about. He talked about a club? He has no recollecion of it, though of course it doesn't take him by surprise. He probably has one lone brain cell up there working on his memory, desperately trying to make up all the work of the ones he killed off with too much liqour. He resists the urge to laugh at the mental image, lest Bahorel finally declare him insane and have him carted off to an institution.

"Probably man. It seems likely. Look, I'll catch up with you later at the Musain alright? I need to sleep some more."

He clicks off without waiting for a reply, something his friends had gotten used to over the years. Adieu felt so final, and while Au Revoir might mean until next time, the hope of there being a next time just left him with anxiety. Better to say nothing at all and spare him the grief either way.

He lays there a while with his phone still next to him, until he sees the screen go black and power down, mustering up the energy to grab his charger, plugging his phone in and letting it drop to the floor. It isn't far to go, he has no bed-frame, only a mattress in the middle of the floor. It's cheaper, and makes life much easier when he has to crawl to the bathroom.

He doesn't go to the bathroom, not sure if it's because he doesn't need to go, or because it's simply not worth the effort. Despite not bothering to check the time on his phone, the sun reminds him that the day is moving forwards, light beginning to shine through the curtains, only serving to exhaust him, instead of energise him. He's always been a night owl, but never before had he felt so determined to stay in bed, and sleep the day away, He's almost tempted to peg it down to a depressive episode, but that doesn't seem likely. He's been in a good place lately. He's made his rent on time for the past three months, he's cut down his use of party drugs, and even he and Enjolras are arguing less. By his standards, his life is going pretty great. Of course by anyone elses, he's still an absolute mess. His living space is one tiny room with a leaky ceiling and a bathroom shared with four other tenants. His dependance on alcohol is a constant problem, a shot of rum to get him through the day, vodka in his cornflakes, rum in his coffee throughout the day. He can't remember the last time he was up and about, and stone cold sober. But still. If Grantaire were to judge himself by everyone elses standards, he would have given up on everything a long time ago. It's easier to set himself tinier, more realistic goals, than to try and live up to the expectations for a normal human. Dress himself correctly. Use protection. Sleep in a bed instead of an alley. Pick up a paintbrush once a day. Always keep some bread in the cupboard. They were things that everyone managed to do every day without fanfare, but to Grantaire they were little victories. Things he would be proud of, even if he did it secretly, and silently.

Today however, victories would have to wait. His throat feels hot and scratchy the way it did when he got a viral infection last winter, but right now he thinks he's just parched. He could probably sit up on his knees and reach the kitchen sink from his bed, but decides against it. A little dehydration wont kill him, he's put his body through much worse before and he's still standing. Or rather, laying. But the point still stands.

He lets sleep take him over easily, settling in to sprawl and snore with sheets tucked between his legs, a single corner pulled up uselessly to his chin, his mouth hanging loosely open, his head tilted to the side. And the wound, the scabbing tear on his neck; healing, blood clotting, then skin knitting together, pink and fresh, as if nothing was ever there at all, just a figment of a drunken mans imagination.


	2. Alucinari

 Over the next couple of days, it’s easy for Grantaire to set into new habits, without even fully realising it. He’s never been one to follow a strict structure, rather the sort of person who lives for convenience and comfort, very rarely going out of his way to do things he doesn’t want to do. If he’s ever early it’s because he’s managed to garner some enthusiasm for his plans. If he’s late, it’s likely he’s spent extra time trying to figure out if the venture is worth his effort. And as of late, Grantaire was finding even minimal effort to be a task. His bed his comfortable, and even though he feels like he hasn’t slept, he’s sure he must have; and must have simply forgotten about it. After all, it’s impossible that he hasn’t slept in four days. There would have to be something wrong with him. And he was just the same old Grantaire.

He would be lying if he said that nothing strange had happened to him in the past few days. Not that he has any problem with lying. It comes easy to him, always had. Lies are a good defence mechanism, protect you from things that might hurt you. It’s easier to lie, to build up those walls behind deceit, and never let anyone inside. Inside its raw, tender and painful, and if someone were to worm their way inside and poke a little too hard...well those walls might just come tumbling down. That would hurt, and the only pain Grantaire can ever stomach is the physical kind. That is simply a part of him, unavoidable. Or at least...it was. Pain didn’t seem to be an issue as of late.

Ever since he was a boy, Grantaire had gotten used to at least one part of his body hurting. It could be a scraped knee when he was seven, when he decided to jump off the roof of the bicycle shed behind the school building. Or like the painful reminder of a ripped out eyebrow ring - caught on his t-shirt at seventeen in a clumsy attempt to get dressed in time for class, leaving behind a lot of blood and eventually; an unsightly scar that he has several made-up stories for. Losing a piercing is boring. Having an excuse to make up elaborate and ridiculous stories; is not. Pain is simply a part of Grantaire’s life. Pain in his tar-filled lungs on a cold winter morning. Pain in his arches from practicing Canne de combat for too long, too hard. Tender bruises from rounds in illegal boxing rings, earning his rent - and most importantly - that feeling of being alive. That kind of physical pain was sorely needed sometimes. Of course he wasn’t like his dear friend Jehan; he didn’t find comfort in a sharp blade and a flow of red. But who was to say that his attraction to bare-knuckle boxing or bar brawls were any better? They were just two different forms of the same thing.

Grantaire had sworn that when he had passed out to sleep, he had a nasty cut on his neck. It seems however, whatever toxins he had enjoyed the night before had remained in his system, because when he awoke in cool darkness, when he forced himself to slog to the bathroom to piss and gargle mouthwash, his neck was bare of any marks. Perhaps he should have taken a photograph, but he supposes if he did that, he would have found just an odd picture of his neck on his phone. He had imagined the whole thing. But oh, what a peculiar thing to imagine. He cannot even begin to imagine what such a hallucination should mean. There's a mental note tucked away to mention it to Jehan, who once had picked up the habit of jotting down all of Grantaire’s delusions when they indulged in poppy tea together, recounting them to the man once sober, telling him what they could possibly mean. He doubts this one would bring a positive message. Despite convincing himself he’s imagined it, he still shudders at the false memory of pressing his fingertip against wet flesh….

 

  
         It’s 2am in the morning when Jehan is sat next to him, jerking him off with painted fingernails as they both try to watch the re-run of some bland american comedy that Grantaire can’t remember the name of. There’s nothing romantic about what they are doing, and in a strange sense, nothing sexual about it either. Their relationship is platonic for the most part, confusing and complicated for the rest. Jehan isn’t touching him because they love him, or because they want to be with him. It’s just...something they do because they do it. They’ve always done it. It’s a bad habit...a good habit, all rolled into one. Grantaire much prefers the hand of skinny blond sex workers who do what he tells him to, and Jehan much prefers someone with more of a taste for danger and Romanticism. In a different lifetime they would both settle for each other. But neither of them are settlers. They are the type of people who always aim higher, who want to sit on the clouds, want to touch the sun. But it’s a long fall and a slow burn for the both of them. Happiness doesn’t come often for those who wake with the taste of desperation on their lips.

They share a cigarette afterwards, Grantaire naked and unashamed of his ugliness. Jehan has never rejected him, not in any way. It’s easy to fall into a place of comfort when with someone just as damaged as you are. Jehan’s wearing a black leather skirt over brown paisley tights, their shirt fully buttoned up, patterns of roses stretching from their dainty wrists to their throat. Grantaire finds himself staring, a strange feeling overwhelming him, thoughts that he usually spares for his golden-haired God, or at least for the poor imitations he likes to pay.

“Can you undo a few buttons?” Grantaire asks him as he sits, stealing the lipstick-stained cigarette that Jehan holds in an outstretched hand. Too occupied with watching an old episode of Gossip Girl, Jehan simply hums, and undoes the top three buttons on their shirt, determined not to get distracted. Grantaire is made aware of his dry, cracked lips, licking them once, before shuffling himself forwards to press a kiss just under Jehans ear.

“Uh..what are you doing?”

It’s enough to startle Grantaire, to make him want to pull away. But Jehan smells nice. Homely and warm...but yet sharp and metallic at the same time. It’s making Grantaire’s mouth water.

“Are you wearing perfume?” Grantaire asks them, trying not to slobber all over his friend's neck like an over-affectionate Great Dane.

“No, I left my bottle of Endymion at Parnasse’s place, and I can’t get it back until he apologises,” Jehan tells him, shaking their head just barely, making an effort not to displace Grantaire. “I’m sure I just smell of sweat and soil.”

“No...it’s something else,” he murmurs, pressing his nose against his warm skin, as if perseverance will help decode the illustrious scent. “I imagined I had a big cut on my neck the other day. Blood all over my neck. Do you think that means something.”

“Hard to say. I don’t have any of my books with me.” A little chuckle escaped Jehan, laughing at their joke before they’ve even said it. “Perhaps a vampire sucked your blood and forgot to clean up the mess.”

Grantaire joins in with a snort, moving away from his neck to take a long drag of the cigarette, dropped the end into a cup of water, returning to bury his nose against Grantaire’s neck.

“Did something else happen?”

“Hm?”

“When you imagined this cut,” Jehan presses, eyes still glued to the screen, flickering over the french subtitles. “Did you see it in the mirror? Did you just have a feeling it was there? Tell me more, so I might understand. Though perhaps not too vividly. I am too vulnerable for Folie à deux.”

“I do not think this madness is catching. It was just the once, and I may not even have been awake. Perhaps it was just a vivid dream,” Grantaire tells him, running his tongue over Jehan’s skin. It does not taste the way he smells. Salt and earth. Something in the back of his mind tells him he needs to go deeper, but he disregards the thought quickly, not eager to try and understand the meaning. “I was laying in this bed, hungover, no surprises. I ran my finger along the mark..it was like a tear, skin ripped open. It was raw, I couldn’t resist pushing my finger against it. When I pulled my finger back, it was bloodied. Thats all I remember.”

“I don’t need books to tell you about the poking of wounds,” Jehan tells him with a sad smile. That is enough at least to turn their attention away from the laptop screen to kiss Grantaire’s forehead, their lips filled with kindness like no other. “You never let anything heal. You always have to pick...to poke and prod, to make the wound worse. And blood. Blood might mean we are alive, but it doesn’t mean we’re living. Perhaps you ought to stop the bleed and move on.”

“Move on?”

“Perhaps this is about Enjolras.”

Jehan. Sweet little flower with a heart full of beauty and violence. They know Grantaire so well. He drops his head to the pillow with a thud, and does not open his eyes again, his silence answer enough for the both of them. His eyes remain closed, but he does not sleep. He hears three more episodes of Jehan’s show, english that turns muffled and unintelligible to his ears once it’s turned down. He hears Jehan put on their shoes later on, he hears the door open and close. He hears sounds melting together, birds, cars, creaks, music, voices. He must sleep, even though he doesn’t realise it, because when his eyes open, the sun has risen and set in his absence.

He checks his skin again, clean and fresh; no mark in sight. The mark may not be there, he may not see it, but the wound still bleeds.


End file.
